


reverse motion

by snapchat (orphan_account)



Category: Produce 101 (TV), X1 (Korea Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind Fusion, Exes, Getting Back Together, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2019-09-17
Packaged: 2020-10-20 03:22:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20668484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/snapchat
Summary: Seungwoo tries to fill the blank spaces in his memory.





	reverse motion

**Author's Note:**

> started writing it. had a breakdown. bon appetit. 
> 
> (grossly unbetaed bc i wrote it on a whim, as one does when they have 3985985983985 irl assignments and zero motivation for even half of one! inspired by [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I6DiZmeVqJE).)

_ **you find me like a habit** _

“Is this seat taken?”

Seungwoo looks up from his phone, where he’s been absentmindedly scrolling through his oldest sister’s frantic KakaoTalk messages. She’s worried—_understandably so_—and he makes a mental note to message her back later, after the train’s taken off and she doesn’t have the power or ability to force him to come to his senses. _You can’t keep running away_, he imagines Sunhwa saying, her voice tiptoeing on the edge of irate. _Seungwoo, you can’t keep hiding from someone you don’t remember._

A stranger wearing a pale yellow sweater and round glasses peers at him, confused, and Seungwoo realizes belatedly he’s taken too long to respond.

“Oh,” he says faintly. “Yeah, of course.” 

“Of course, it’s taken?” the stranger attempts to clarify, a minuscule smile peeking past an otherwise neutral visage. 

“_Oh_,” Seungwoo says again. “I meant—no, of course not. You’re free to sit.” He locks his phone and shoves it into the pocket of his coat, trying to make himself as small as possible—as though he’s somehow intruding in the stranger’s space even though the edge of his jacket is just barely peeking past the armrest between them.

“Have you been?” 

Seungwoo blinks. “To Busan?” he asks. 

It must be a stupid question, because the guy rolls his eyes. He’s kind of rude, Seungwoo notices, but it isn’t half as offensive as it should be. “No, to Daejeon,” comes the smooth retort. “Yes, to Busan. This is the six-am KTX to Busan, right? I’m not on the wrong train, am I?”

“You’re not,” Seungwoo replies, lips curving into a faint smile. “Sorry. I’m not thinking straight. Didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Insomnia?” A pause, and then the guy starts rooting through a backpack before procuring a tattered book. _Fifty People_. Seungwoo has the same copy in his duffel bag, which he’s shoved into one of the overhead bins. “I’m Wooseok, by the way.”

_Wooseok_. A tiny pang of pain jolts through Seungwoo’s head and he clamps his eyes shut for a second, waits until the throb disappears before he meets Wooseok’s gaze, brushing aside the tiny glimmer of concern in the other’s eyes. 

“Something like that,” Seungwoo answers, a ghost of a laugh sneaking out of his throat. He shrugs his shoulders, looks almost sheepish as he rubs the back of his neck. “Nothing to worry about. Wooseok? I know a Wooseok.”

He does. And it’s not as though the name is uncommon. There are probably hundreds of thousands of _Wooseok_s out there. 

“Most people would say _nice to meet you_ and tell me their name,” Wooseok comments, raising a brow. “For your insomnia, I recommend chamomile tea. I have trouble sleeping too. Nightmares or something. I guess I could call them nightmares.”

He doubts tea is going to silence his own nightmares, but Seungwoo musters up a grateful smile anyway. “Sorry,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’m Seungwoo. Han Seungwoo.” 

Wooseok doesn’t say anything for a short while, looking entirely too contemplative. The moment passes and he nods once, and then twice. “Han. Seung. Woo,” he says, mostly to himself, like he’s learning to acquaint his lips with the curves of Seungwoo’s name. “I think I know a Han Seungwoo too.” 

“You think?” 

He doesn’t get a response, not immediately. Wooseok opens his book and flips to a page where a curved silver bookmark is wedged. “I think,” he repeats. “My memory isn’t the greatest.”

Seungwoo hums, sinking back into his seat. His fingers worry at a tangle of earphones, and he isn’t sure if he really means for Wooseok to hear it when he says, “Mine isn’t either.” 

* * *

ELLIPSIS is a new technology that’s introduced to the public when Seungwoo’s twenty-two. One morning, he supposes he woke up and gave in—tumbled out of his tiny, cramped goshiwon in Sinchon and decided he was going to rip the band-aid off. He remembers being on the phone with Sunhwa right up until a nurse clad in all white called his name. _Are you sure, Seungwoo?_ he remembers her asking. _Are you sure you won’t regret it?_

He doesn’t remember much about what compelled him to pursue it. Doesn’t really remember what it took from him. Doesn’t really remember why he wanted those memories—whatever they were—gone so badly in the first place. 

But that’s the point. ELLIPSIS is supposed to get rid of the memories he wants to get rid of, not temporarily or just for the meanwhile, but permanently. Forever. 

When he wakes up, the ceiling as bright and white as it was before he lost consciousness, there’s a gaping hole in his heart and he wonders, distantly, if this is what he wanted it to feel like. The nurse escorts him out of the room, a cramped doctor’s office without much furniture or personality at all. _Thank you! Please come again if you find the memories returning!_ she tells him. He remembers mumbling a _thank you_ back. Remembers all of those frivolous, minute details, but not a single thing about what, or who, on earth he was so afraid of.

A part of him thought it’d be seamless; the technology would pluck away those unfortunate memories causing him heartache, and life would carry on after that. 

It doesn’t. Life is strange and foreign when there’s an emptiness to his heart, to his being—like he’s missing a critical part of him. But ELLIPSIS is a new technology, and while it’s mastered the art of taking, it’s yet to perfect the art of giving back. 

His sisters won’t tell him anything (not that he asks, because a part of him is too proud to admit he might regret whatever it is he gave up), and his parents always tell him, looking at him pitifully, as though they’re sorry for how lost he feels, that _it’s for the best_. All he has after ELLIPSIS is a lacuna in his ribcage, a blank space in his chest, a […] where there should be a story. 

(All he has is a single note snuck into the pocket of the coat he wore to his procedure.)

The train stutters and skips over a hitch in the rail, jumping a tiny bit. A little girl sitting a few rows back lets out a loud giggle, burying her face into her father’s shoulder and saying, loudly, that she’s “excited to see the ocean.” Beside him, Wooseok’s fast asleep, the book spread open, face down, on his lap. 

Seungwoo holds his breath. Something leaps in his chest and Seungwoo closes his hand into a fist, doesn’t even know what he was about to do, _who_ he was about to touch. There’s a tiny Snoopy charm dangling from the end of Wooseok’s bookmark. He looks away.

It’s been a while since Seungwoo’s visited home. His parents and Jiyoung are the only ones left in Busan now. Jiyoung’s finishing medical school. Sunhwa’s married and has a family in Seoul. Seungwoo’s in Seoul too, burying himself in work from eight to six at a desk job to try to cover up the fact that he’s starting to think he can’t hide from himself. Maybe he’ll drop by his parents’ shop to say hello. Maybe he won’t. He just needs some distance—wants to _get away_, and the first place that came to mind was Busan. 

A weight falls on his shoulder and he doesn’t need to turn to see what it is. Wooseok’s hair tickles Seungwoo’s cheek and he inhales sharply, wonders why his chest is blooming with an unwelcome—

(_Ah_, ah, don’t say it.) 

Seungwoo squeezes his eyes shut. Thirty more minutes until they get to Busan Station.

Until then, he’ll try to silence his thoughts. It’s just the name that’s summoning up the knot at his solar plexus. 

Beside him, resting on his shoulder, Wooseok stirs. Seungwoo knows a Wooseok. 

(Crumpled. Written on the back of a _Kyobo Bookstore_ receipt with a single 4,500 won purchase identified only as ‘_BOOKMARK_.’ The note on the back is comprised of two lines. Seungwoo recognizes it as his own handwriting.)

Or at least he’s supposed to.

(_Kim Wooseok.  
Don’t chase after him._)

* * *

He wakes up to the little girl tugging on his shirt sleeve. 

“Mister,” she says, eyes wide and bright, her free hand clinging onto her father’s index finger. 

Seungwoo blinks away the bleariness, one eye closed as he tries to orient himself again. The soreness in his shoulders is a dull reminder of thirty minutes ago. It almost feels like a dream—maybe it was.

“Hm?” he murmurs.

“The train’s stopped!” she exclaims, pulling his sleeve again. “We’re in Busan!” 

The seat beside him is empty. He isn’t sure why that disappoints him so much. The little girl’s still staring at him, though, and it’s easy for Seungwoo to muster up a smile just to mirror hers. “Looks like we are,” he says, tapping her once on the nose with his index finger. “Thanks for welcoming me home.” 

* * *

_ **the courage to forget** _

“You’re so reckless,” Sunhwa says, and Seungwoo can _hear_ her frown. “The least you could have done was tell me. Do you know how worried I’ve been? You don’t pick up my calls, you don’t pick up Jiyoung’s calls, and I can’t remember the last time you talked to mom and dad—”

“Sorry,” he offers feebly.

“Don’t tell me you’re sorry unless you mean it.” 

He does mean it. 

“Seungwoo,” she continues, her tone sobering by the second. He isn’t sure if he likes where this is going. “You know we’re just worried about you, right? You haven’t been the same since…” 

It’s almost two in the morning. Seungwoo isn’t sure why Sunhwa isn’t asleep yet. Maybe she was waiting for his call; maybe he ought to apologize again. He lets out a soft sigh, an exhale, his breath materializing before his very eyes in the November chill. At this hour, the streets are empty. The beaches are unoccupied, and signs that don’t mean much at all are erected at the edge of the sands to keep people out. He used to romp around the waters when he was a kid, always late at night, always alone. He’d come home and his mother’s eyes would be rimmed red, her worry overflowing even as she yanked his ear to bed. 

“I know,” he interjects, only because he doesn’t think he can stand to hear Sunhwa finish her thought. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize.” The sound of a door shutting quietly on the other end filters through the phone. “How’s Busan? Same as always?”

“Same as always,” Seungwoo replies. 

“Are you going to visit home?”

“I’m not sure,” he confesses.

Sunhwa makes a noise of disapproval but doesn’t push it. “Do you have a place to stay?” 

“Yeah.”

“Seungwoo,” she tries again. “I… I know we’re not supposed to interfere with the process. God, I—we had to sign forms and everything promising we wouldn’t interfere. You know dad burned so many of your things to cover up the traces? Mom was worried. She said you’d regret it, that we should save it all somehow, just in case you changed your mind—but it was a decision you made for yourself. It’s hard not trusting you when you’ve always put so much thought into everything, and—”

“_Noona_,” he says, placatingly.

“If you ever want to know,” she whispers, and he isn’t sure why it sounds like she’s crying. “If you ever want to know, you know you can ask, right? Me, Jiyoung—_anyone_.”

“I don’t want to know,” Seungwoo answers before he can even process what Sunhwa’s said. It’s instinct at this point, autopilot. He shouldn’t be curious; not when he made a conscious decision to let go. “Don’t worry about me.”

“I worry about you,” Sunhwa insists. “Just… Don’t do this alone, okay? If you need anything, we’re here for you. Your life’s supposed to be the easiest. You’re the baby of our family.”

Even late at night, Gwangalli Bridge lights up. He stands still on the side of the road, where the only light filtering into the street comes from shop signs and the full moon. A few drunk stragglers teeter past him, arms curled around each other’s shoulders for support. In the distance, he spots someone standing alone, peering into the waters just like Seungwoo is.

“You should sleep,” Seungwoo says, his feet leading him in the direction of the silhouette. “I’ll be fine. I’ll call you later.”

Sunhwa seems to know she’s lost the battle tonight. All she does is sigh, mutter a feeble _good night_, before the line clicks and Seungwoo’s fed silence. 

One step turns into two. Two to four. Four to ten. 

“It’s late for a walk, isn’t it?” 

Wooseok turns, but he hardly seems surprised by Seungwoo’s presence. “I thought we established we both have trouble sleeping at night.” 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were following me,” Seungwoo says, the lilt to his voice teasing. 

The way Wooseok’s eyes curve when he smiles a little too wide makes Seungwoo’s throat feel tight. His breath stutters and he forgets how to breathe for a second. There’s that pang at the forefront of his skull again, the nanosecond of pain that almost seems to be warning him to take a step back, to run away.

His feet are heavy. He doesn’t move away, only closer.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Wooseok says easily. He’s wearing the yellow sweater from two days ago when they first met on the train. The harsh artificial glow of the nearby buildings with neon signs that never turn off falls on Wooseok like rain. He looks soft in this light. Surreal. “I don’t know why I came,” he confesses, and his eyes are still fixed on something in the distance. “I couldn’t sleep and before I knew it, I ended up right here.” 

“Me too.” Seungwoo inhales slowly, his exhale leaving him in tendrils. It’s cold outside—isn’t Wooseok cold, too? “That’s why I ended up in Busan. I felt this weird tightness in my chest, in my head—couldn’t think straight. Before _I_ knew it, I was at the train station.” 

“Maybe it’s muscle memory,” suggests Wooseok. He looks at Seungwoo again, his gaze heavy. “It’s like that for me, at least. For a lot of things, places.”

“Me too,” Seungwoo echoes, and the words come out like a whisper. “Some days, it feels like there’s a big gaping hole in my heart where someone's supposed to be.” 

“You’re looking for someone too?” Wooseok asks. He hums before turning on his heel, taking a couple of steps away. His voice gets smaller as the distance between them grows, and Seungwoo flounders for a second, wants to find an excuse to get Wooseok to _stay_. “Maybe your subconscious is trying to find them for you.” 

_Who are you looking for?_ Seungwoo doesn’t ask.

It’s strange. He has no reason to anticipate seeing Wooseok again, but there isn’t a single bone in his body that feels the urge to bid him farewell. Not for good.

“It’ll be even colder tomorrow,” Seungwoo calls out, and he doesn’t budge. No excuses today. He needs to stop making excuses, _period_. “You should dress warmly.” 

“I’ve been told it’s what makes me charming,” Wooseok says, and Seungwoo has to strain to hear. “It makes people want to take care of me.” 

Seungwoo bites back a smile. 

There’s that twist of his heart again.

* * *

That night, he dreams of a faceless past. 

The feeling of a body, warm and light in his arms. It’s late, past midnight, in his dream too. He doesn’t have a watch—he just _knows_. Knows by the emptiness of the streets, the way Gwangalli Bridge seems to be the only thing alive if he holds his breath. But there’s a body in his arms, someone living, breathing, and their arms encircle around his neck, drawing him closer—

_Oh._

(It’s a memory, isn’t it?)

They lean in to whisper something, but he can’t hear them, can’t make out what they’re saying. The sensation of lips brushing the shell of his ear, of someone’s laughter curling around the tip of his tongue as they lean in, lips to lips, palms pressed against Seungwoo’s chest—

_Oh._

(It’s not his, is it?)

“_You were right_,” they tell him, and the voice is muffled but hauntingly familiar. “_Gwangalli really is prettier at night._”

In his dream, Seungwoo only pulls them closer, presses his lips to their forehead. It feels too natural. He doesn’t get why.

“_I used to come here when I felt lost_,” he says. “_If you’re lost, just come find me._”

The laughter turns into the sound of metal dragging across metal. Everything bursts into white. 

When he startles himself awake, the first thing he does is sprint to the bathroom. He curls over the toilet bowl; tries, in vain, to ease the nausea out of his body. 

“Hey, you good?” his friend calls from outside the door. It’s probably close to eight in the morning. He’s been holed up in the same spot for the past hour. He feels even sicker than he did when he woke up, if that’s possible. It’s like the reality of what he dreamed is settling into his bones when it doesn’t belong.

“I’m fine,” Seungwoo calls back, and he squeezes his eyes shut, feels a shudder run down his spine. “Just a little dizzy.” 

* * *

His high school friends are happy to see him, and he’s just as willing to let them monopolize his time. They want to update him on everything he’s missed—on their jobs, on their girlfriends, on their wives, and when they prod Seungwoo for more details on his life, all he has to offer is a shrug of the shoulders and a wry smile, hidden behind the rim of his glass of beer. 

The bar the group has settled into is one of his favorites, a little shop in the corner of Seomyeon. Every night, there’s a string of performers on stage, and he’s sure there are places like this in Seoul, too—but something about this one in particular is special. He can't put a finger on it: he just knows.

“Heeeeeey,” Yunsol slurs, flinging an arm around Seungwoo’s shoulders and leaning in too close. He reeks of alcohol, but there’s a wide, goofy grin on his face that draws a laugh out of Seungwoo anyway. “When’re we gonna meet him?” 

Most of the group has dissipated into the crowd, tried to get closer to the stage because there’s a particularly cute girl singing a set. 

“Meet who?” Seungwoo asks, steadying Yunsol, hand on his back. 

Yunsol frowns, not because he’s upset but because he’s confused. “Your boyfriend?” he tries. “Aw, fuck, what was his name. W—”

“Hey!” someone calls out, nearly tumbling into Seungwoo’s side. Right that second, one of his friends swoops in to drag Yunsol to the bar, probably for another drink. They’re celebrating his birthday early, while Seungwoo’s still around. _We never know when you'll disappear again,_ Yunsol had explained. “Can you hold my waist?”

Seungwoo blinks down at none other than Wooseok, who has a sheen to his eyes, a pink dust to his cheeks. He’s leaning up on the tips of his toes to whisper to Seungwoo, hands reaching for Seungwoo’s wrists in the process, guiding them.

“Trying to shake someone off,” Wooseok explains. “Do me a favor?” 

It’s too easy, the way Seungwoo’s hands rest at the dip of Wooseok’s waist, pulling him closer until he’s only centimeters away. From the corner of his eye, he can spot a guy staring holes through Wooseok’s back, looking particularly disgruntled.

“Still there?” Wooseok asks, and his palms are pressed against Seungwoo’s chest now as he angles himself upward, trying to whisper into Seungwoo’s ear but missing, mouthing at the junction of his jaw instead. 

“Still there,” Seungwoo murmurs. Wooseok makes a tiny noise of disapproval and Seungwoo laughs. His body feels a little hot. Maybe the alcohol’s finally hitting him. “You sure you’re not following me?” he asks, the smile on his lips taunting. 

Wooseok doesn’t answer. He fixes Seungwoo with a critical look before his fingers curl into the lapels of Seungwoo’s shirt and he _pulls_. 

“Do me another favor?” Wooseok asks, _demands_, his lips a breath away from Seungwoo’s. There’s a smile on Wooseok’s face now too, and he closes the distance for a half-second, experimentally. A ghost of a kiss. He doesn’t smell of alcohol at all. “He seems persistent.”

The kiss that follows is nothing like the first. Wooseok’s arms creep upward until they’re loose around Seungwoo’s neck. They’re flush against each other, and it’s weird, _should be weird_, how the taste of Wooseok’s mouth is something Seungwoo feels like he’s missed for too, _too_ long. 

He isn’t sure how much time passes, only knows that when he remembers to check for Wooseok’s pursuer, the guy’s gone and the crowd’s thicker than it was before. 

They separate, Wooseok’s cheeks pinker. It might be a trick of the light.

“Is he gone?”

“He’s gone,” Seungwoo confirms. He shifts, as though inviting Wooseok to move away, but he doesn’t. He stays put, too close to Seungwoo, his finger hooked through one of Seungwoo’s belt loops, as though tethering himself. 

“It’s a nice bar,” muses Wooseok. It should be hard to hear him with the music as loud as it is, but his voice cuts straight through it, makes a home in Seungwoo’s ears. “I don’t remember who told me about this place, but I felt like I had to drop by.”

“Muscle memory again?”

“Something like that,” Wooseok says. He inches closer when a group of people tries to squeeze past them. Seungwoo wraps an arm around him just in case. “The weird thing about these spontaneous trips is I never know when I’ll want to leave.” 

If he holds his breath, he might hear Wooseok’s heartbeat. He wants to chase it. 

“You don’t have anything waiting for you in Seoul?” 

Wooseok’s gaze is glued to the stage and Seungwoo watches the reflection in his eyes. 

“Don’t think so,” Wooseok replies, distantly. “It’s always hard to tell these days.”

His head throbs once. Seungwoo thinks it's the alcohol. 

* * *

He dreams again that night. 

Another faceless vignette. The same old bar. This time, his high school friends are nowhere to be seen. It’s quieter in his dream—the crowd isn’t as rambunctious, isn’t as loud, and whoever’s performing is tinkering away at an acoustic guitar, his voice sticky like honey. 

The person, the one from his other dream, is there again. He knows it’s them even if he can’t see their face—knows by their warmth alone. They’re drenched, and so is Seungwoo. Suddenly, the sound of the rain outside is loud and insistent. 

“_Can’t believe we found a place like this trying to get away from the rain_,” comes a murmur.

Seungwoo’s jacket sits, too big, on their shoulders. “_Aren’t you glad I forgot an umbrella?_” he asks.

“_Don’t act like you did it on purpose, hyung._” 

Laughter starts echoing again, like fireworks. This time, when he wakes up, he doesn’t feel as sick, doesn’t feel as nauseous; he just feels lost, a little disoriented, the dull thud of his mind terrifying because it feels like his body’s trying to chase the memory away.

(Later that afternoon, he tries to recall what he dreamed about and the only thing that comes to mind is the sound of rain and a voice like honey.)

* * *

The _Kyobo Bookstore_ receipt is gone and missing from Seungwoo’s jacket pocket. He figures it must have blown away, dropped onto the street—it shouldn’t concern him too much.

But it’s strange, how it kind of feels like another giant chunk of him has been tossed into the ocean. 

“I think they want to apologize,” Sunhwa says over the phone, cutting straight through Seungwoo’s stream of thought. “You should visit home. Let them say sorry to you.”

Seungwoo kicks at a stray pebble, thinks about the contact that’d been added to his phone with a note added: _i’m leaving tomorrow, maybe we can meet in seoul._

“They have nothing to be sorry for,” Seungwoo replies. 

“They do,” Sunhwa insists. “_We_ do.” 

He inhales sharply, lets his head fall back, the sky a bright, blinding blue above him. He missed Busan, he really did, but his bones are aching to go back to Seoul now. 

“You don’t,” Seungwoo starts to argue.

“We do,” Sunhwa repeats. She lets out a shudder of a breath, something intermingled with a faint, guilt-laden laugh. Is she crying again? “We should have stopped you.” 

Wooseok’s probably in Seoul by now. 

Seungwoo laughs too. “You couldn’t,” he says. “I thought it was what I wanted.”

“You thought?”

The Kim Wooseok he warned himself about is probably the faceless presence in his dreams. That’d make sense, wouldn’t it? Why Yunsol wanted to ask about a boyfriend Seungwoo doesn’t remember having—why the ache in his heart seems to be something akin to longing.

“I thought,” Seungwoo murmurs. “Maybe I was wrong.” 

Yellow-sweater Wooseok comes to mind for some reason. 

His legs are tired, but he wants to run. 

* * *

_ **i cut myself on traces of you** _

There’s a cardstock advertisement hidden in the deepest corner of Seungwoo’s dresser. It almost looks like a postcard, a gaudy picture of a beach that definitely isn’t in Korea plastered from edge-to-edge. In white text, it reads, _ELLIPSIS: Where You Can Write Your Own Story!_

Seungwoo holds it up to the light, squints at it, tries to make sense of why, two years ago, all he wanted was to run from _his own story. _

The first thing his mom does when she sees him is cry. Her expression crumples from unassuming neutrality into something wholly broken in a matter of seconds, and Seungwoo feels his eyes stinging too, has to look away when his dad shuffles to the door to check out what the commotion is and lets out a tiny, choked noise of shock at the sight of his son showing his face for the first time in a year in a half.

The ELLIPSIS procedure is supposed to make his life easier and it doesn’t. Seungwoo’s an anomaly, the one in one thousand—the outlier. For a month and a half after his memories are plucked away from him, he’s convinced things _will_ be better. And then they aren’t. And then they get harder. And then it gets too difficult dragging himself out of the apartment unless he has to, becomes a chore responding to his family’s pointed concerns. _Why are you so sad?_ Jiyoung asks once, and she sounds angry, but there’s a sheen to her eyes that Seungwoo hates himself for. He isn’t _sure_ why he’s so sad. He was supposed to be happy.

His parents usher him into the house, start peppering him with inoffensive questions asking when he came, how he’s doing, if he’s sick, if he’s eaten. Dinner passes by without a hitch, and neither mom nor dad push at him when he dodges their concern ineloquently. 

Sprawled out on a bed that’s too small for him, Seungwoo almost feels like a kid again. He turns the advertisement over and scans through the small text, stifles a scoff at a cursive line that reads, _Happiness guaranteed!_ He should sue. 

“Knock, knock,” comes a voice at the door. It’s Jiyoung, looking as sleep deprived as ever. She must have hurried home from the library, the smudges of ink on her hand still fresh, her glasses crooked atop the bridge of her nose. Where Sunhwa is fierce emotion, Jiyoung is level rationality. Growing up, he was always a little more afraid of her than he was of the eldest. “Look what the cat dragged in.” 

“Long time no see to you too,” Seungwoo says with a laugh, hoisting himself up into a sedentary position. He’s motionless as Jiyoung settles atop the bed beside him, legs crossed, knee digging into Seungwoo’s thigh. “Were you studying?”

“Is that even a question?” she asks, though there’s no bite to her tone. “Unni called and told me we might get a mysterious visitor. I was hoping for Gong Yoo, not my stupid little brother.” 

“Good thing your stupid little brother’s as handsome as Gong Yoo.”

“And blind too, evidently. Do you know what a mirror is?” Jiyoung snickers. Silence sits between them for a moment too long, and he’s about to anchor himself to some small talk, pleasantries, when she continues. “You must have had a reason, right? For coming back? Unless you woke up one day and decided you were done pulling your temper tantrum.”

“It wasn’t a temper tantrum,” insists Seungwoo, leaning back until his head hits the wall. “I just—I just needed space, some time… to recalibrate.” 

“And you’re done needing space and time now?” 

“No,” he confesses. “I just feel a little lost. A lot lost. Just as lost as I felt two years ago. I figured… I don’t know what I figured, to be honest. I just woke up one day and decided I needed to go to Busan… and then I got to Busan and spent a few days wandering around and decided I needed to see mom and dad.” 

Jiyoung toys with the drawstrings of her hoodie. “You regret it, don’t you?”

He doesn’t say anything. He should ask for clarification, but he knows exactly what she’s talking about.

“Of course you regret it. I would, if I were you. And I know exactly what you gave up.” She’s quiet again. “Just ask, you idiot. Stop being so stubborn and ask.” 

“What’s the point?” Seungwoo’s lips purse into a bitter smile. “I won’t remember anything anyway.” 

“At least you’d know what you lost,” she grits out. 

Home is so suffocating. The Seungwoo who used to sleep in this room, who used to exist within these walls—he’s foreign now, lost to the past. The Seungwoo of the present is too different, too weary to fight time; but he’s too desperate to let go. 

“Do you think the human brain’s capable of finding lost memories?”

He gets a frown from his sister. “Not like this,” she says, her tone faintly apologetic. “Not with the way ELLIPSIS works. It’s like they’re removing it from you, you know. Chiseling it out from the entirety of your life and stowing it away somewhere in their utility closet.” She leans back too, slumped against the wall behind her. “You should ask. They probably have your memories somewhere, catching dust on a shelf no one looks at.” 

Seungwoo swallows thickly, his heart pounding painfully beneath his ribcage. His bones feel like they’re shaking from how terrifying his memories must be. What would he do if he could see them? Could he do anything at all? Would they just cement why he ran away from them in the first place?

“Was his name Kim Wooseok?” 

“Yeah.”

“Did you like him?”

“Yeah.”

“Did mom? Dad? Sunhwa noona?”

“Yeah, we all did.”

His heartbeat starts chasing the ticking of the clock on his wall; for a second, he’s quiet, his body chasing time. 

“Do you think I was in love with him?” 

Time slows. Seconds to minutes, minutes to lifetimes. 

“Yeah.” His sister exhales softly, gaze flickering from the ceiling to the side of Seungwoo’s face, lips curving into the smallest smile. “Yeah, you were.”

* * *

He tries to sneak out early the next morning to catch a train back to Seoul, but his mom corners him in the kitchen as he’s pressing a note to the refrigerator door.

(_Sorry you have a son like me. I love you._)

She asks about breakfast. Asks him if he wants to pack an extra coat from dad’s closet. Wants to know how long the train ride is, if he has time to stop by the shop before he leaves. Does he need a ride to the station? Why doesn’t he take home some _banchan_—he’s all skin and bones these days. 

She’s stalling, he knows. She’s scared, he knows. Scared that he might disappear again, might lose himself in his own heartbreak for the second time. _You’re just like your dad_, she’ll tell him. _So stubborn. Always refusing help._

“I’ll be back,” he promises her. 

His mom’s smile is shaky. “I know,” she says. 

“Don’t look so sad,” he teases. “It’s hard enough leaving as it is.”

Her eyes are watery again. “I know,” she says.

“Sorry,” he says, wrapping an arm around her, letting her tuck her chin over his shoulder. “You waited long. I didn’t mean to make you wait.”

She pats his back. “I know,” she says. 

By the time he makes it to the door, he feels that tightness in his chest again as he looks at her. It’s different, though, not as painful, not as bittersweet as it used to be. Maybe being home—really being _home_—has done him some good after all. Maybe this is closure, learning step-by-step to lean on people who have been waiting for too, too long for Seungwoo to falter. 

“I’ll see you,” he says, and it’s a promise.

“Seungwoo,” his mom calls out before he has the chance to leave. 

“What is it?”

“You can’t lose a person that easily,” she tells him, hands curled around the edge of the door. “No matter how far away, no matter how long it’s been, your mind may fail you, but your heart’s stubborn. It’s _hard_ losing a person.” 

Somewhere in the world, Seungwoo’s memories are sitting, contained, on a videotape or two, or three. He doesn’t particularly want to find them, doesn’t particularly want to rebuild his memory, but there’s something about knowing that he doesn’t have to feel whole again to feel himself that settles on his shoulders like a winter quilt.

“You can’t,” his mother promises.

There's something about knowing that some things, people, are meant to be found that wraps around him like a warm embrace.

Seungwoo smiles, ducks his head as he turns to leave. “I know.” 

* * *

_ **a single second without you is meaningless** _

ELLIPSIS can’t find them, and the receptionist looks genuinely apologetic as she bends into a ninety-degree bow, pushing a business card into his hands and asking him to _please come again in a few weeks!_ She says she’ll keep an eye out for his memories, and Seungwoo forgets to tell her she doesn’t have to.

In the two weeks since he’s come back to Seoul, life hasn’t changed extraordinarily, for better or for worse. He’s been good about calling his parents, about responding to his sisters’ text messages. He doesn’t go to the office on weekends anymore, and though sleep is still difficult to come by, he’s been having less nightmares, spending more hours in a neutral dreamworld.

Wooseok doesn’t respond to the two text messages Seungwoo’s sent (_this is seungwoo_, and _do I have the right number?_), doesn’t pick up his calls. The voicemail greeting is a familiar voice saying, _Sorry, I can’t come to the phone right now…_

ELLIPSIS can’t find his memories, but Seungwoo’s starting to fill in the blanks on his own. 

One weekend, he comes home to a package sitting outside his door. The address is written in his dad’s handwriting, and when Seungwoo opens it, all he sees is a single flash drive and a sheet of lined paper folded into thirds. 

His dad’s note takes up less than half of the paper, and Seungwoo really only pays attention to the last three lines:

_I looked for days._  
This is all that’s left.  
The rest is up to you. 

He’s hardly surprised when he plugs the USB into his computer and the first photo he pulls up is him pressing his lips to Yellow Sweater Wooseok’s cheek. 

Seungwoo anticipates feeling sick, a lurch to his stomach—but he doesn’t. He’s relieved. Suddenly, everything makes sense. Why they kept ending up in the same places, why it felt like Wooseok belonged in Seungwoo’s arms, why their kisses tasted like nostalgia. 

Wooseok was right: it was all muscle memory. 

The blurred gaps in Seungwoo’s dreams reassign themselves, and when Seungwoo closes his laptop, closes his eyes, waits—maybe in vain—for his heart to _slow_, he thinks it’s funny. 

So this was the Wooseok that the Seungwoo of two years ago didn’t want to chase. 

The Seungwoo of two years ago ran away from too many things, though. 

Seungwoo covers his eyes with his hands and sinks into his seat. 

Two years is a lot of time for change. 

* * *

_Hey. It’s me, Seungwoo. Sorry—I’m sure you’re getting tired of my messages. This will be the last one, I promise. Maybe you won’t get to it for a while, but that’s okay. Did you get your memories from ELLIPSIS? Did you figure out who I am? Who you are? Who we were? I figured that might be why you’re avoiding me. I don’t know half as much as you probably do, but I’ve been looking through some pictures, and I think… I mean, I know, I_ know _you were right. All of those places I kept seeing you at, the fact that we were in the same city, feeling the same sort of lost—I think my subconscious really was trying to find you. _

_You know more than I do. I’m assuming you do. Maybe you saw the reason why you had your memories wiped. Maybe you figured out why I got mine wiped. Wooseok… Wooseok? I don’t know if this means anything to you, but there’s a coffee shop right outside of exit two of Sinchon Station. It feels familiar to me the same way the bar, the bridge, even the train did. I’ll be there every night at seven. Let’s talk in person. _

_I’ll wait. I think this is worth waiting for._

* * *

“That’s not fair.” 

Two more weeks pass. Seven in the evening, like clockwork, Seungwoo sits at the same spot by the window and drinks his coffee. He waits until the café closes and then he walks home, tries not to dwell on the disappointment of another night lost to time; tries to think, instead, about the promise of tomorrow. 

Two weeks. Fourteen days.

Wooseok finds him.

“That’s not fair,” he says again, brows furrowed, lips pulled into a frown. Wooseok hesitates before taking a few more steps to minimize the space between them, sullenly seating himself across from Seungwoo. “You don’t even know what this place means.” 

Seungwoo holds his breath, counts to three, _exhales_. “You saw your memories.” 

“I’m here to tell you it’s not going to work out,” Wooseok says, sharply. “I did. Because after I met you in Busan, there was this nagging voice at the back of my mind that was telling me I was close to figuring out why I felt so lost and lonely all of the time. I accidentally picked up your receipt. Saw my name written on the back of it. I didn’t think about it, didn’t anticipate anything. But I went to ELLIPSIS and asked. They found hundreds of videotapes with my name on them. I watched them all. It took _weeks_. I don’t know what you want to say to me, but I’ll say this: _we weren’t meant to be_.” 

“Okay,” Seungwoo says. “What does this place mean?”

“Why does it matter?” asks Wooseok. “It’s never going to mean the same thing to us. Not—not in this lifetime.” 

“I just want to know.” 

“Did you know you broke a promise to me?” 

“I didn’t.”

“I know. But you did. When you first asked me out, I told you I was selfish, that I could be mean. I made you promise you wouldn’t let me push you away. We got into a lot of arguments, but it was mostly just me being upset with you. It felt like I was the one doing all of the chasing, trying to figure out how to get you to be honest—with me, with yourself.” Wooseok swallows the lump in his throat, refuses to meet Seungwoo’s eyes. “We used to meet here every Friday. You’d finish work and I’d wait for you here. Always made sure to save that time for us.”

“Did I ever forget?” 

“No, never.” Wooseok smiles to himself, and it’s bittersweet. “I’d tell myself I was tired of you. But then Friday would roll around and I’d hear your voice and forget why I was upset in the first place. When I was really angry because you wouldn’t respond to my texts, you came into the coffee shop and gave me a Snoopy bookmark like I was some kid. I still use it. I didn't know why, but it just felt natural.” 

Seungwoo folds his fingers into fists, doesn’t let himself reach forward; doesn’t let himself touch Wooseok. 

“One time, we went to Busan.” Wooseok clenches his jaw. “It was a last minute train ride, early Saturday morning. I got to meet your family. You took me to the bridge at night and told me you used to go there when you felt confused, when you felt lost. You made _me_ promise I’d find _you_ if I ever felt lost. You wouldn’t promise it back, though.” A breath slips past his lips like a shudder. “The next day, it started pouring while we were walking outside and we ran into that bar, spent the whole night there. It was my favorite part of Busan. I wouldn’t shut up about the performer the whole train ride back and you said it was your new favorite place too.” 

“What was the promise I broke?” 

Wooseok doesn’t reply. His shoulders are trembling, his hands curled over his knees. He doesn’t want to say anything. Seungwoo can tell. 

“We were terrible together,” Wooseok says, instead. “You’d let me get mad over stupid things. You never apologized first—I never apologized either. We’d just wait until enough time passed for the both of us to pretend like we forgot why we were upset.” 

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t.” Wooseok grits his teeth into a hollow rendition of a smile. “You don’t even know what you’re sorry for.” 

(_Don’t chase after him._)

“I _am_ sorry,” Seungwoo says. 

“I hate that. I lied to you. You always apologized first. You never let me stay angry. You gave me so much, but I thought you’d get tired of me. I pushed you away, you know. Really did. We got into a fight over how hard you were to read. I told you I couldn’t do it anymore, that I was too tired. Do you remember what I said earlier? That I asked you to promise me you wouldn’t let me push you away? I wanted you to chase after me.” Wooseok’s smile falters. “You didn’t. You’d ask my friends how I was. You really thought it was possible for me to get tired of you. I just—I just thought that if you could rely on anyone in this world, it could be _me_, but you wouldn’t let yourself. Even when I pushed you away, you wouldn’t let yourself chase me. I hated you for that. It stung. I went to ELLIPSIS on a whim when I was too stupid and too upset to think straight. After you found out what I did, you went too.” 

“I think you’re wrong.” The words materialize, heavy, in the air before Seungwoo even has the chance to think them through. “When you said we weren’t meant to be—I think you’re wrong.” 

Wooseok lets out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Didn’t you hear everything I said? We were terrible for each other, hyung. All we did was push and pull. We were never honest with each other.”

“Did you love me?”

“That’s not—”

“Wooseok, did you love me?”

“That’s—yes, but what does it matter now?” 

(_Don’t_—)

Two years of wandering around Seoul, wondering what it could possibly be that he was missing. Two years for Seungwoo to figure out how to fill the hole in his chest, to learn that it was a task he couldn’t do on his own. He’s still learning—learning how to let the world be kind to him. He’s still learning how to let others love him. 

But he knows how to let Wooseok love him; knows how to _love Wooseok_. The memories are lost, but he knows down to his bone how to kiss Wooseok, how to hold him, how to read every flicker of emotion that passes in and out of his wavering gaze. 

They were meant to be. How else would they have found each other?

(_chase after him._)

“I love you,” Seungwoo murmurs. 

Wooseok frowns. “What?”

“I love you,” Seungwoo says, louder. “I love you. I don’t know how to explain it, but when we kissed at the bar, it just—it felt like _coming home_. When I saw you at the bridge, at the beach, it felt like you were what I was looking for. Isn’t that terrible? I’m sorry. I think I really do love you. I don’t remember how I hurt you, or why I let myself hurt you; I don’t know why I didn’t chase after you, but I’m here now. Let’s try again, Wooseok.”

“You’ll break your promise again,” says Wooseok. “I’ll hurt you too. We’ll make the same mistakes. I just know it. You don’t know what I saw, hyung. It doesn’t matter if you’re in love with me. Doesn’t matter that I’m in love with you—” He freezes, as though he’s spoken a secret into truth. “It doesn’t matter,” he says quickly. “It’s all going to end the same way.”

“It doesn't have to,” insists Seungwoo, the confidence in his voice akin to a promise. He isn’t sure where it’s coming from, this sense of _knowing_, but he’s sure of himself. It won’t end the same way. He won’t let it. Not when he knows how it feels to lose Wooseok (empty, so empty); not when he knows how it feels to find him again (full, so full). “Do you really think it will?”

Wooseok shakes his head. “You don’t _know_,” he repeats. “I hate that you make it sound so easy.” 

“We’re not the same people we were when we first met,” Seungwoo says slowly, carefully, each word measured with deliberation. He leans forward this time, hand reaching across the table to fold over Wooseok’s. He’s expecting some resistance but Wooseok doesn’t fight it. “This isn’t a second chance to make the same mistakes,” he continues. “We can’t think of it like that.”

“I went to Busan because I felt so unbearably lost.”

Seungwoo smiles. “Me too.” 

“You told me to come find you if I ever felt lost.” 

He draws Wooseok’s hands to his lips, presses a kiss to his knuckle. “I know.” 

“How do we know it won’t end the same way?” Wooseok all but whispers. He’s tired too, scared, and Seungwoo has to bite back another apology. 

“We don’t.” He doesn’t want to make any baseless promises. “But that’s okay, isn’t it? The future’s so far off. We have so much time to figure things out.” 

Wooseok shifts as though he’s about to pull away, but he doesn’t. His shoulders dip, sag, and he inhales slowly. Wooseok looks like he might cry, and Seungwoo realizes belatedly that he might too.

“We broke each other’s hearts,” Wooseok says, one last attempt at testing the waters.

“That’s okay,” Seungwoo replies. “That was yesterday. Today’s today. Tomorrow’s tomorrow.” 

Quiet—and then _acquiescence_. 

Seungwoo squeezes Wooseok’s hand, feels his heart jump when Wooseok reciprocates. 

“I’m selfish,” Wooseok begins to say, the fatigue in his features whittling away as the workings of a smile start to show. “I can be mean.” He drops his head. “You have to promise you won’t let me push you away.” 

It’s with reluctance that Seungwoo lets go of Wooseok’s hand. He rises out of his seat, taking one step forward until his leg hits the edge of the table, and he’s close enough that he can close the distance between them. So, he does—one finger at the base of Wooseok’s chin, tilting his head up until their eyes meet again. 

“I know,” Seungwoo says, their lips centimeters apart. “I promise.” 

“For real this time,” says Wooseok. “You have to chase after me.”

“I will.” Their breaths intertwine. And then, seconds before they kiss: “I’ll never stop.” 

* * *

_ **come back into my arms** _

It’s his parents’ anniversary so he decides he’ll go down to Busan. 

The last time he was there was when he found himself, to put it loosely. The trajectory of Seungwoo’s life has changed since then—maybe for the better. He’s still figuring things out, still answering questions, but the dull blank space, the unoccupied lacuna of his solar plexus is a thing of yesterday.

A few rows behind him, a little boy, drowsy with sleep, asks if there are sea monsters near Taejongdae. His mother placatingly tells him there are only fish. 

“Is this seat taken?”

Seungwoo looks up, sees a blur of pale yellow. He shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says. “Headed to Busan?”

“Isn’t this the five-am KTX to Busan?” comes the reply.

“It is.” There’s a smile on Seungwoo’s lips. He rests his forearm, palm-up, on the armrest. Watches as the person beside him settles into his seat before easily, too easily, tangling their fingers together. “What takes you to Busan? Are you feeling lost?”

“No.” Wooseok hums, squeezing Seungwoo's hand once. “I guess I’m just ready to be found.”

**Author's Note:**

> this shit cheesy af


End file.
